Rolling Stone

Here’s how things are going…

The earth is moving…only too fast to discern in which direction. The trains come and go, but mine never comes…turns out I am at the wrong stop.

Wet, cold and smelling of clouds; I want to drink it in, but can hardly breathe. The moon looks like its been hung from the ceiling of a giant planetarium I am visiting. I see it for the first time ever. Yet, like a parasite, the muggy nature of hopelessness clings on to the cool moonlight.

There’s light everywhere….from before I can remember to late evening. There are mountains and there is the sun. One peak, two peaks…there could be millions here…only the feet grow tired, the scene doesn’t. Its an over enthusiastic runner running for miles showing you how its done. You can only see how much you want to see. But, I don’t want to see anymore. I want to hug myself and slip into a deep slumber…where the sun’s rays cannot touch my mind and where things would get much easier.

But now a days, even dreams are turning realistic. Waking, sleeping, eating, numbing…I don’t know when I am awake and when asleep. The earth rotates so well. It should get a medal. But then so should I for keeping up with it. Makes my head spin. The camera can only capture it on auto mode…but the nice lady at the auditorium broke it and now all I can do is try to click…but nothing clicks.

Rolling from the hills into the valley, rolling from grace into despair, rolling from happiness into loss, rolling from high to low is going with the tide. But the tide must rise for the stone to get thrown back. Upriver trade was never that popular in America, or any other prosperous country. I look down. Maybe there is a village downstream that needs what I am selling.

The sales tax woman is sweet and plump. The sound of honey and sweetie from the mattress order clerk makes my day. The library employee is rude and I am again in a slump. What is the meaning of all this? I have been in pain for so long, now I’ve stopped imagining what the other side would look like.

Onto the paper, I bleed my soul…the heart I doubt is here anymore. Come and order your pint of blood, this is the last call. Sociopath – is not such a bad job title afterall.

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